


Once Enough

by b_ofdale_archive (b_ofdale)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Angst and Feels, Forgiveness, Happy Ending, M/M, Reunions, Scars, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale_archive
Summary: When Bard is sent to find a mysterious castle and its dangerous owner, things don't quite go as planned—there, Bard faces many questions: who truly is Thranduil, the castle's man-witch? How can the curse be broken? And what truth is Thranduil hiding from him?





	Once Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miryokae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miryokae/gifts).



> When I posted my Big Bang last year I said that it would be my last long fic/one-shot, and this fic right here was supposed to be a short fic (3.5k max)... but it got out of control and now here we are. :p
> 
> Do I win the prize for lamest summary yet?
> 
> I'd meant to write a Beauty and the Beast AU for a very long time, but never got around to do it. Then the live-action movie came out, and my best friend ([check out her stuff!!](http://miryokae.tumblr.com)) went like "batb!au but Bard is sent to kill Thranduil" which led to me suggesting angsty stuff... A year and quite a few changes from our original idea later, there it is! 
> 
> Sooo this is for you Ju! <3 It took me a while and I wish I felt more confident about it, but oh well, I wrote most of it while having writer's block, so #itried. You're not big on fluffy stuff so there's not that much I think, but I'm a romantic piece of shit so of course it had to get a tad Emotionally Romantic at some point. But anyway, I just hope you'll enjoy it!! Thank you for planting the idea in my mind, being extra huggable, and being such a rad bff. 
> 
> I can't thank [my beta Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/user/Piyo13) enough for her quality editing, thank you so so much my friend!!

“We must kill this monster!”

Meeting in the village’s great hall were Laketown’s townsfolk. The fire set light and angry shadows upon their faces, reminding Bard of bloodthirsty beasts; it wasn’t so far from what they might become tonight, should their decision be too hasty. 

Though Bard understood their concern, worries of his own gripping his gut, he was convinced that calling for murder was too rushed; it was one child’s word putting a life at stake, and even if he believed the boy’s story, he also knew many things were scarier to young children than they were to adults. 

“You’ve heard what he said to Haldane’s boy,” said one man. “He’ll _kill_ whoever sets foot on his land again!”

“Then let’s not do exactly that?” Bard tried, arms crossed over his chest. All eyes turned to him. “The man’s merely made sure no one would come back, and we’ve never even noticed his existence for all these years—why go after him now?”

“Do you hear yourself, Bard?” exclaimed Nora, the butcher’s wife. “The boy’s traumatized by what he’s seen! Dark magic, giant wolves that could tear us all apart? This monster is a threat to our very existence!”

“I believe him, Nora,” Bard reassured her. “But I do not want unnecessary bloodshed if we can avoid it, be it on his part or ours.” 

People began to whisper between themselves, many’s worries about the wolves and the magic finding their way to Bard’s ears. At the far end of the table, the village’s mayor stood up. It was enough for silence to fall upon the room. He exchanged a quick look with Bard, whom he’d always been on good terms with, before his eyes trailed across the rest of the people present. 

“It’s useless to attack the man-witch at once,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “We do not know the land, nor his creatures’ number in detail—let’s send someone who will report back to us with all that we need to know.” 

Bard heaved out a sigh of relief. This was exactly why he liked their mayor—he was more reasonable than most people in power usually were. Around the hall, the townsfolk’s whispering grew louder, none of them ready to put themselves forward for the job. They weren’t cowards, but weren’t spies or fighters, either. 

“What about Henry?”

“His child is sick. You know he won’t leave town until she’s better.”

Similar exchanges ran across the room for a few minutes. Meanwhile, Bard’s fingers tapped quickly on the table as he made his decision. 

“Alright,” Bard said after a moment, standing up, hands flat on the table. “I’ll go.”

Nora raised both eyebrows at him. “You will?”

“I’ll find the castle,” Bard said. “I’ll see if that monster, witch, or whatever he is, is as dangerous as we think.” He briefly connected eyes with all men and women around the table. “Then, I’ll come home, and we can make a proper decision.”

Whispers continued to go around, but they’d grown quieter. Eventually some voices rose higher than the others, expressing their agreement. Bard wasn’t in a position of leadership in the village, but he was a skilled archer, and knew his way through the woods. They weren’t putting the job in just anyone’s hands. 

“Very well,” said the mayor. With a grand wave of his arm he called the end of the meeting. “Thank you, Bard. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

Bard nodded, and without another look to the townsfolk, he made his way home, already hearing Sigrid’s voice reprimanding him for what he was about to do. 

 

The next morning, Sigrid still wasn’t happy with her father’s decision. Bard could tell by the way her brows were constantly furrowed, and the way she tapped her fingers on the table in a similar way to what he often did as she watched him get ready.

“I’ll be fine, darling,” he told her, caressing her cheek with his thumb before he packed dried meat in his bag. “In five days’ time, I’ll be home. One week at most. You know I’m careful.”

Sigrid sighed. “I know,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean you’ll be safe.”

“When have I ever not come home?” Bard said. He lay a fond gaze on her, trying to be as reassuring as he could be. She was right, of course—but there was nothing he wouldn’t do to get back to them. “I promi—”

“Please don’t,” Sigrid cut, shoving a bit of bread into his arms. Her voice broke. “Don’t promise you’ll come back.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Bard put the bag and the bread away to take both her hands in his, stopping the tapping. “I’ve left like this before. What worries you so much?”

Sigrid took a deep breath. “I heard what Tom said. This is nothing like we’ve ever seen!” she explained, her voice going a pitch higher despite herself. She shook her head, eyes closed. “It sounds dangerous, Da.”

With a sigh, Bard brought her into a hug. He kissed the top of her head and stood there in silence, until Sigrid broke their embrace to look up and smile at him. Or tried to, anyway. 

“Please, come home.”

“And in return, please stop Tilda from stealing a bow to practice with while I’m gone. She’ll accidentally shoot someone’s leg again.”

That got a laugh out of her. “Sure, Da.”

With a smile of his own, Bard went to kiss Tilda and Bain goodbye in the small living room where they played knights and dragons, before walking out the door. The weight of Sigrid’s eyes on his back was heavy, and Bard could only let out a shaky breath.

He’d be home, before she could even notice he was gone.

  


~•§•~

Autumn was cold in the woods, colder than it felt back in the village, but Bard knew them better than his own pocket. Which perhaps was what made this discovery so. . . strange. If he knew the woods as well as he’d always thought, then how come he’d never noticed a castle in the middle of them? It made little sense, but Bard believed Tom’s words; there was no reason for the boy to lie, and the details he’d been able to give despite his terror were enough of a proof.

Besides, there had always been something magical about the woods—it was said that the trees had souls, and Bard firmly believed it. He’d spent many nights under their canopy, and often their sad songs had reached his ears, though he couldn’t decipher the words. 

Sometimes they’d brought tears to his eyes, and he’d never understood why. 

Bard had spent the evening preceding his departure—two nights ago, now—asking Tom as many questions as he could handle in his current state of mind, so that he had every chance of finding the place the young boy had stumbled across. Tom spoke of branches and bushes covered in thorns, high, dark trees and the howling of the wind through the woods, turning into the howling of wolves. He’d been lost and then he’d broken out onto the castle’s gardens, and there had been no torches, no roads to guide visitors’ steps through the gates. 

In the end, that’s what Bard ended up being, too, and that was maybe the scariest part of it all so far. 

Getting lost. 

Getting lost, when he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. The woods had always been a second home, but from the moment he had stepped into them, looking for something he didn’t know where to find, it hadn’t felt so much like home anymore. The deeper he’d gotten, the darker the woods had turned, and the less inviting they’d become. 

Bard kept his calm nonetheless—he secured his grip on his bow, and heaved out a breath which formed a small, white cloud of steam that disappeared on its way to the sky. 

From the corner of his eyes, he caught something black and glittering. 

Shifting on his feet, Bard turned towards the bushes. Something shone upon them, reflecting the rays of sun coming through the canopy of the trees, as though they were made of metal. Bard’s brows furrowed. If this had had been there before, he would have seen it. Bard walked slowly towards it, his frown deepening as his eyes fell on thorns made of iron on the branches. 

Bard’s mind was working quickly; the only explanation he could find was that he was only finding this, and he didn’t like to admit it, because he was lost. He’d gotten lost trying to find the castle, and so he’d found the way to it, just as Tom had gotten lost when trying to find shelter. 

The thorns cut him as he walked through, finding no other way to cross to the other side. He’d looked around, and on each bush and tree after the other he’d seen thorns, where they had been none before. Chills ran along his arms. No wonder Tom had gone home so terrified. 

He took one more step—

And felt like the ground had opened under him. 

His body rolled on the dust and the dirt, until it hit a rock in a thud. Bard groaned, his hand flying to his face, finding the side of his forehead wet, blood covering his fingers when he brought them down to see. He didn’t have much time to worry about it, nor to regain his spirits; he looked up, trying to situate himself, and his skin crawled at what he saw.

An immense, black castle stood ahead, with towers so high they could have touched the sky for all Bard knew. It wasn’t too close, but close enough to look intimidating from where Bard had fallen: a decaying garden, filled with the broken parts of an old defense wall, themselves covered in weeds and iron thorns. Bard scrambled to his feet, taking hold of his bow and an arrow at the ready. This _wasn’t_ how he’d wanted his spying mission to go. Turning on his heels towards where he came from, Bard cursed when he was met with a muddy, almost straight cliff, impossible to climb. 

He’d have to find the gates, and get the hell out of there—but not before he’d seen what he had come to see. 

Bard put his hood over his head. 

Then, he took one step forward.

But not another more. 

A growl had risen up behind him. Followed by another, and another, all of them deep and wild and threatening. Bard raised his bow, and spinning on his feet, released the arrow. He didn’t wait to see if it had hit its mark to start running, blood thumping at his temple. His head hurt.

He ran, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the wolves, and wished Tom had been lying, for they were no different than the description Bard had been given before leaving: white and huge. And those wolves—they weren’t alone. 

There was something else. 

Bard caught it as he took a turn, startling him enough to make him lose the concentration necessary not to trip on the many roots across the ground. With another curse Bard crouched, raising his bow again and aiming it at the wolf that jumped in front of him—but the wolf didn’t move. Though he didn’t lower his guard, Bard looked behind it towards the form. It had moved closer, standing now by its pet’s side, somehow keeping the others from attacking. 

Bard couldn’t hide his surprise; from Tom’s words, he’d expected someone much more terrifying. Yet before him stood a man. A somewhat scary man, but a man nonetheless. He wore green clothes that were so dark they were almost black. His hair was like silver, and though Bard couldn’t see his eyes, there was something cold about his gaze. He would have looked like an ordinary man, if not for the burns and scars scattered all over his face, down his neck, across his hands.

“Who are you?” The voice that resonated across the dead garden matched its owner: deep, smooth, and cold. “What are you doing on my land?”

Bard swallowed, his grip tightening but lowering his bow, just enough to be able to raise it back in time if needed. “Just a traveller,” he said.

“Liar,” the man, the witch, boomed. 

Not moving a inch, Bard tried to hold the man’s eyes despite the distance separating them. When he spoke, his voice didn’t quite sound like his own. “I was merely passing through, I will be on my way—”

“Do _not. Lie._ To me.” He took one last step forward, and Bard felt the stranger’s eyes piercing through him, trying to see his face from under his hood. Then, after a moment of silence, “You’re from the village. The boy talked.”

“No, I—”

Bard was given no time to deny the man’s words. 

With a silent snap of his fingers, the wolves were set loose once more. 

Bard ducked, successfully avoiding claws about to tear out his chest. His first choice was to try to run away; get back home and to his children, warn the village peace would not be possible now that trust had been broken before it could even be established. 

Sharp teeth tearing into his leg stopped him from even reaching the garden’s gates. He fell into the dirt with a gasp and a cry, and despite the pain managed to turn enough to try shooting an arrow between the wolf’s eyes. 

Crouching once more with a wince, Bard raised his bow, and aimed. 

Each wolf he hit disappeared in a cloud of white smoke. He’d expected it to be black. 

He also thought he’d disappoint his children, break their hearts, by dying today.

Yet in the chaos Bard’s hood slipped from his head, revealing his face. 

In an instant, all came to a stop. Growls turned into whines, and the wolves made way for the tall, dark figure. 

His expression was nothing like Bard had first seen; gone were the coldness and the blind anger—instead his face was twisted with pain, sorrow so clear in his eye it made Bard want to look away. But, kneeling in the snow as he was, Bard held the stranger’s gaze.

“Bard.” The voice was deep and smooth and broken, now. It rolled with the wind, making shivers run down Bard’s arms. 

“How do you know my name?” Bard’s own voice croaked as though he hadn’t spoken in weeks. He realized it was the fear, the sudden terror he might have been wrong and tomorrow his children would be fatherless, that was making both his voice and his fingers tremble.

So were the man’s.

He got no other answer than the stranger reaching out to his face, and then he saw and heard nothing.

  


~•§•~

The place Bard woke up in was dark. Without doubt it would have been cold as well, if not for the fire on the other side of the room, setting a soft orange light upon the walls and the bed upon which Bard lay. He rubbed his eyes, unable at first to remember where he was and why he was there—but when the memories came, he straightened up with an abrupt gasp. His eyes fell on his leg. The wound stung and hurt, but it had been taken care of and bandaged.

Bard’s brows furrowed. If he was where he thought he was, why wasn’t he dead? Why was he in a warm room and on a comfortable bed? The place was dusty and smelled old, but it wasn’t a cell. The door was slightly open. If he was indeed in the castle, there was nothing to make him feel like a prisoner. 

Looking around, he found his cloak and his belt on a nearby chair, but not his weapons. He wasn’t a prisoner, but the man who had brought him here wasn’t taking risks. Bard supposed he could understand that. 

Bard rubbed his eyes before sitting on the edge on the bed. He tried putting some weight on his leg, but found himself letting out a whimper at the sharp pain that instantly ran through it. 

“You’re awake.”

Bard started, his hand immediately going for his back, but meeting nothing. He let his hand fall back on the mattress, squeezing hard at the blanket. 

The man who controlled wolves stood in the threshold. Half his face was lit by the fire, the other half hidden by the shadows of the hallway. He looked less intimidating here, but not friendly, either. However, he seemed to have been deprived of all composure, and what little of it he had left he used to not look on the verge of breaking. Bard didn’t know how he could see that so well. 

“Who are you?” Now was his turn to ask. 

“There is food for you downstairs,” he continued, ignoring Bard. “Ask, if you need help.”

“Who are you?” Bard asked again.

The man merely looked at him for a moment, impassible. Eventually, he said, “Thranduil.” 

It was a beautiful name, Bard thought. Strangely, it fit its strange owner. Even more strange, knowing that name made him feel safe; made him feel like he wouldn’t be hurt, here. “Why am I here?”

For the first time, Thranduil showed a sign of hesitation. It lasted no longer than a second, and then the blankness and the coldness were back. “You’re hurt. You can’t go home.”

“I could have gone home—but trespassing seemed too great a crime. I thought you wanted me dead for it.”

“I thought so, too. But I never meant to kill you, merely scare you off—hurting you was a mistake.”

“What changed?” Bard asked. 

“Who you are,” was Thranduil’s reply. It was spoken firmly, but quietly. 

“And who am I?”

“Someone I used to know.”

Bard frowned. “I don’t know you.”

Thranduil didn’t answer—and instead disappeared in the shadows. 

Bard pinched the bridge of his nose, finding himself unable to make sense of Thranduil’s words. Instead he looked around once more, and found a crutch by the bed. His stomach growled. Perhaps he should get that food that Thranduil had mentioned. 

With some difficulty, Bard managed to stand and take the crutch. Walking hurt, but wasn’t impossible. He figured he wouldn’t have been able to right away, and regretted not asking for how long he’d been asleep. A little while, at the least, if his weakness was anything to go by. 

Bard’s first thought was of his children. How long had he been gone? How worried were they going to be, for nothing? He had to go home. 

As soon as he could, he _had_ to go home. 

Walking down the stairs was no easy task, but Bard eventually managed, and was relieved to indeed find food displayed on a dinner table thrice as long as the one he and his children ate at. The food didn’t look foul; on the contrary, Bard didn’t think he’d ever seen food look so inviting. He sat at the lonely chair, putting chicken and potatoes and carrots on his plate. Glancing around as he took his first bite, Bard was surprised to find a dining room of surprisingly good taste, if one ignored the dust and the cobwebs. 

It was a room for kings. He felt small sitting alone in the middle of it, surrounded as he was by big burned portraits and fancy wallpaper, fine weapons hanging on the walls. 

And the food—the food was incredibly good. Way too good for an old castle in the middle of nowhere, run by a mysterious man-witch. 

But there was no one to ask questions to. When he was done, Bard found nothing else to do but go back to his room; the village was three days’ walk away, and he was in no state to make the journey back safely, unless he didn’t want to keep all of his limbs. 

All he could do was wait, and hope Thranduil would come back and give him the answers he needed. 

 

Thranduil did come back on the second day. He appeared by the door again, staring at Bard with his pale blue eye until he was invited in. 

There were a number of questions that Bard couldn't yet ask: why he found it so easy to feel safe here, like a cloak of familiarity had been gently put around his shoulders, and why Thranduil was so generous to him. But there were other questions Bard _could_ ask, and he didn't hesitate in the asking.

“How long have I been here?” he asked first. 

“Three days.”

Bard drew in a sharp breath. Soon, he would have to be home. Sigrid would already start worrying, and panic before the next night could come. Tilda would cry herself to sleep, and Bain wouldn’t be able to ease her tears. 

“Time passes differently here.”

Bard looked up at Thranduil. “I’m sorry?”

“A day in your world, here can be a week to a year—time is uneven in this place,” Thranduil explained. He seemed to have only realized it himself. “You don’t have to worry about going home in time.”

A wave of relief washed over Bard. His worries seemed to disappear one by one, which wasn’t something Bard was in any way used to. They always seemed to accumulate instead. 

“I shouldn’t worry—but you should; the town will be searching for me,” Bard said despite himself, but Thranduil merely tilted his head slightly to the side, his hair falling in a cascade over his shoulder. He didn’t seem worried in the slightest.

“You don’t seem surprised,” he stated instead. 

Bard shrugged, wincing at the pain a bruise to his shoulder caused. “I’ve seen giant wolves turn to smoke. I think I’m ready for everything.”

To Bard’s surprise, with those words he got a small, quick smile out of Thranduil, which disappeared as soon as it had come. 

Bard chose that moment to ask his second question. “Who made the food?” 

Thranduil made a vague gesture of his hand. “The staff, of course.”

“The staff? I’ve seen no one.”

“Just like they cannot see you.” 

“Perhaps I was wrong,” Bard said, brows furrowing. “Perhaps I’m not ready for everything.”

Thranduil shook his head, somewhat in sad amusement. He took a few steps into the room, and saw to the fire before he answered. “There was a staff, here,” he said. “They lost their bodies and their souls the same night I lost everything I held dear, and now they wander this castle doing their task like every single day, unseen and unseeing, until they are set free again.”

Unfair, and terrible, Bard thought. No one deserved such a fate. Bard observed Thranduil for a short moment. His own words seemed to wear on him, eyes downcast at the fire, as if in grief. Bard needed not ask to understand he’d lost more than just a staff, but people he’d cared about, too. 

“Who did this?” he wondered aloud. Thranduil glanced at him, searching his eyes, like he expected to find something in them. He didn’t find it. 

“A long time ago, I would have said a witch. Today, I would admit that it was myself.” Thranduil’s voice had grown more tense. Clearly, there wasn’t much more Bard would get from him that morning. 

“You were cursed, too,” Bard guessed aloud, and the way Thranduil’s body stiffened, the way he averted his eyes and turned his head back towards the fire, trying to hide his face, was enough of an answer. “What happened to you?”

“It is none of your concern.”

Bard inspected him a moment longer, and then without thinking his next word through, he said, “Isn’t it?” 

He wasn’t sure what had made him say that. Yet at once, Thranduil disappeared amongst the shadows once more. 

Bard stayed in bed that day, feeling bored to death but knowing that the less he moved now, the faster his leg would heal, and the sooner he could leave this place. Bard came to the conclusion that he had no way of knowing how many days he had until he’d have to leave and hopefully, at worst, meet the party that would be sent to look for him on his way home. 

Over the days that followed, Bard woke up each morning with a new bandage, and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t figure out who it was who took care of his wound every night. But he did hear them whisper, words and songs in a language he couldn’t understand.

Each day he went down the stairs to eat, taking it as exercise so that his body wouldn’t get used to being so inactive, and sometimes Thranduil ate with him; sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging a few words. Bard thought they made a strange pair, given the circumstances of their meeting. Yet, deep down, he heard an uneasy voice telling him that there was more to all this than he could yet comprehend.

“Do you have anything to read?” Bard asked once, starting to feel the weight of his thoughts when he was alone in his room, which was often enough. 

Thranduil looked up from his plate, staring at him with some sort of curiosity from across the table. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, then gestured to the table. “Are you done?”

Bard nodded.

“Then follow me.”

Taking his crutch, Bard walked alongside Thranduil through the dark corridors of the castle. They advanced in silence, the only sound their breaths alongside their steps upon the stone floors. 

Bard often found himself glancing at Thranduil, trying unsuccessfully to pinpoint what it was that was so familiar about this broken man, who Bard felt was probably about as much of a monster as he was. He was a man with strange powers, but his heart wasn’t as dark as his castle, nor the clothes he wore. How certain Bard was of this was unsettling, yet he didn’t try to shake off the feeling. 

Thranduil led him to an even bigger room than the one they ate dinner in. It was dark, at first—until Thranduil softly snapped his fingers, and at once the room lit up with the blue flames of lanterns left scattered around, and a huge fireplace on the other side. 

Bard looked around in awe, not noticing immediately that Thranduil was going straight to a row of big leather books. “These should be to your liking.”

Bard frowned, tearing his attention away from the unending rows of books along the walls. He joined Thranduil, looking at the books he was being offered—they were, indeed, to his liking. Bard put it down to good instinct from Thranduil’s part. 

“Aye,” he murmured, tracing the cover of the book from the tip of his fingers. “That should do.”

Before he knew it, Bard had spent the night on the chair he’d sat down in to read. The next day, Thranduil joined him. It became a sort of routine; waking up, eating, staying in the library until the late evening came, and going back to their respective rooms—unless Bard fell asleep right there. 

During those days, Bard was often surprised by Thranduil looking at him, something melancholic and sad and perhaps a bit heartbroken, too, about the look on his face. He bore the same look when he looked upon the longbow hanging above the fireplace, or the painting of a young man that Bard sadly came to learn was his son, hanging in the dining room. 

One of those days, Bard found Thranduil staring at the fire, looking like he’d been crying, but there was no path of tears across the ruin that was his face. On the first day, Bard would have turned back without much of a second thought. That day, he couldn’t find it in himself to do so.

“What’s wrong?”

Thranduil started, glancing up at Bard, and he looked like one so used to loneliness that being surprised the way he just had been was a long forgotten feeling. 

“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Thranduil said as matter-of-factly. “Why would you care?”

Bard shrugged. “I don’t know.” He chose his next words carefully, doing so smoothly, for he had thought of this much with each night he’d spent in the castle. “I was a trespasser despite the warning you sent—yet you spared my life, offered me treatment, food, and shelter.” He gestured around him. “Books to spend the time until I can go home—besides, you’re not so bad a companion. I believe it’s only normal of me to care, even a little.”

Bard’s words seemed to have rendered Thranduil speechless, and to Bard’s confusion and regret, they seemed to only increase the lingering feeling of melancholy that followed Thranduil everywhere. He was starting the puzzle, but he needed more pieces. 

Thranduil gave a short nod of his head, before gesturing to the glasses of wine on the low tables between their two chairs. Bard barely retained a low laugh as he sat and took hold of his glass. He made the wine swirl around, observing it. 

“Everyday I wonder how one can be cursed and still be in the mood for wine.”

“I’ve never not been in the mood for wine,” Thranduil replied, and this time he did get a laugh out of Bard, one he returned with an almost imperceptible smile. 

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” Bard said. “You seem like the type.”

Thranduil tilted his head slightly to the side. “How so?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”

Then they settled into silence, and the rest of the day was spent like all the others. Sometimes Bard thought he spent more time observing Thranduil than actually reading, and suspected Thranduil to be aware of it. 

Once they’d been sitting by the fire, and just like today Bard had been looking in silence, until Thranduil’s eye had caught his, and though he’d felt like he had to say something, nothing came to his mouth. 

It was Thranduil who’d broken the silence instead. “You must miss your children,” Thranduil had said, then, barely a murmur, and Bard’s head had shot up in surprise.

“How do you know about my children?”

But Thranduil had no answer to give. He’d kept on searching through the books, until he’d found the one he was looking for, and handed it to Bard.

Bard had taken it, hoping Thranduil would answer his question; but like often, he had been ignored, and known better than to insist. When Thranduil didn’t want to give answers, he couldn’t be convinced into granting them anyway. 

“Why don’t you leave?” Bard had asked instead. 

“I can’t. I cannot pass the garden’s gates until the curse is broken.”

“How do you break it?”

Thranduil had held Bard’s eyes for a while, visibly uncertain whether or not he should reveal more. But eventually he’d let out a quiet sigh, and shaken his head like he didn’t believe in it anymore, anyway. 

“I have to be forgiven—prove I’ve changed.”

Bard closed his book on his lap. “What did you do that was so wrong?”

“I—” Thranduil closed his eyes, just for a moment. “I took much for granted. I didn’t see what was right in front of me, until it was too late. I was blind, selfish, and angry.”

“Sounds like everyone I’ve known at some point or another in their lives.”

The laugh that had escaped Thranduil was a sad, broken thing. He’d taken a deep breath, and then said, like it was enough of an explanation, “I was a king, Bard. I should have shown mercy, but I didn’t—I was inexcusable.”

  


~•§•~

With each new day that Bard walked better, the time he would have to leave grew so near that he thought he could brush it, or catch it in the feeling of defeatism in Thranduil’s eye. Bard couldn’t explain to himself why it was making him so sad—both Thranduil, and the prospect of leaving.

On the one hand, it was a relief to know he would soon be back to his children, and be able to reassure the village that there was no battle to be given against a lonely man in his lonely castle. 

But Bard dreaded leaving, too. Over time, he’d seen Thranduil wither, in small ways. Slower movements, smaller wolves. More resignation. He wished there was something he could do to help—surely there was a way to lift the curse before he left. Or, at worst, he could always come back, if it wasn’t too late. 

However, he eventually read through Thranduil that it would be too late, and suddenly getting better enough to leave began to feel like the end of a dangerous countdown. 

Leaving meant condemning Thranduil. 

Staying meant condemning him, too. 

“What will happen, if the curse is never broken?”

Thranduil wasn’t able to meet his eyes, when he finally answered. “I will disappear, like my wolves, with my staff—my son,” he said. “I won’t be able to say how sorry I am.”

That day, Bard first assumed Thranduil had talked about his staff and his son—all those people who had lost their bodies and their souls because of him. But, a voice told him that perhaps, it hadn’t only been about them. 

“And no.” Bard’s head snapped back to Thranduil. “There is no way you can help. Not if—” He drew in a breath, and seemed to change his mind over whatever he’d meant to say.

“If what, Thranduil?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thranduil said, and the weight of all the words Thranduil didn’t say were heavy upon Bard’s shoulders. 

Of course, it matters, Bard thought, and his wish to understand only grew stronger. 

 

And he did—Bard understood many things over the days and nights that followed. His mind worked quick and fast, linking the dots together until there could be only one explanation possible; an explanation that didn’t clarify much, but which certainly made everything more complicated, rather than the other way around.

With the morning that followed, Bard found Thranduil alone at the dinner table. He sat on the chair across from him, hands held over the table. Thranduil’s eye found his. His brows instantly furrowed, as though he’d sensed that Bard wished to talk about something important, and his whole body visibly tensed. 

“Why didn’t I end up like the others?” Bard asked, not bothering to prepare the field for a conversation that neither of them was ready for anyway. 

Thranduil’s jaw dropped, and Bard would have been amused at the sight if his heart hadn’t been beating so fast, and Thranduil’s eye hadn’t turned so sad. 

“How do you—”

“It’s easy enough to realize that you knew me.” Bard paused, searching Thranduil’s eye. Unreadable. “More than knew, I dare say.”

Thranduil finding himself unable to hold Bard’s eyes any longer was enough of an answer. It was also all Bard needed to feel himself softening even more than he had over the past weeks, while at the same time feeling guilt for not being affected by loss and melancholy as much as Thranduil was. 

He didn’t feel anything—nothing that came from further back than their unfortunate first meeting. 

Thranduil spoke not. He sipped his wine, eye lost somewhere far away, in a place that Bard couldn’t reach. 

“I’m sorry I don’t remember,” Bard said. His hands gripped each other. Thranduil blinked, and looked back at him. 

“Why?”

“Because I wish I could help you. This. . .” Bard gestured to all around him. He didn’t say that he could feel it, too; what the lost part of himself had forgotten—its gentle warmth, the quiet affection towards this man he somehow used to know. “This seems like too harsh a punishment—but you didn’t answer my question.”

With a shake of his head, Thranduil stood. He walked to the fireplace, looked up at the bow on the wall, hands clasped behind his back. Bard suspected Thranduil merely didn’t want him to see the expression that Bard’s words had put across his face any longer.

“You didn’t live here. You never wanted to, said it was too big for someone as modest as you were,” he explained. Bard smiled just a bit, despite himself. It did sound like him. “So, you forgot. Like the kingdom, those whose souls and bodies didn’t get stuck in the trees of the forest—you all forgot about me, about everyone who lived here. About this place altogether.” Thranduil paused, turned away from the fire to glance back at Bard, face now under control. “And you weren’t there, when the witch came back. I suppose if you’d been, you would have suffered the same fate as the others.”

“Who was she?”

Thranduil shook his head again, not answering, and asked instead, “How old is Tilda, Bard?”

Bard raised both eyebrows, at the same time as his daughter’s name, spoken so softly, so sadly in Thranduil’s voice, felt like a kick to his stomach. “Eight. Why do you ask?”

Thranduil laughed, then. Something sad and broken, that didn’t sound quite right to Bard’s ears. “A year,” he said, his tone almost sarcastic. “It’s only been a year for you.”

Though Bard wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, he asked, “How long for you?”

“I’ve lost count. A few hundreds years, perhaps.” 

With that, Thranduil turned away, walking to the doors leading to the maze of halls without another word. 

Abruptly, whispers rose. Hundreds of them, and though Bard couldn’t understand what they were saying, he felt like being prodded into action at the pause they provoked. Before Thranduil could leave the room, Bard stood up. His chair crashed on the floor with the suddenness of the movement, making Thranduil stop. 

The whispers stopped as well, as though Bard had done what they’d been asking of him. Bard then walked up to Thranduil and reached out, the tip of his fingers brushing the scars across his face. 

“They’re not all from the curse,” Thranduil briefly explained. “Were I set free, half of them would disappear. You were the only one who never cared.”

“Then don’t run from me,” Bard said, ignoring him. “I see it.” He paused, as if out of breath. “I see the shape of what I’m sure I used to see in you.”

  


~•§•~

A few days passed, feeling almost like nothing had happened; there was something more in the air now, something neither of them could ignore, but neither ever spoke of. Bard was heavily aware of it, both in his mind and in the looks from Thranduil that he often caught out of the corner of his eye.

Each night, he turned and turned all that he’d learned and understood inside his head, trying to bring back those memories that he knew had to be there, but couldn’t even touch. With each hour, each minute, he felt the weight of an invisible countdown upon Thranduil and the castle. 

Bard had to admit he’d lost track of time despite his calculations, and it was with apprehension and worry gripping his gut that he asked one afternoon as they walked the corridors of the castle, “How long have I been here, now?”

Thranduil took a moment to answer, eyes forward and hands clasped together. “Three weeks,” he eventually said. “One more and I believe you will be fully ready to leave.”

“And outside of here?”

Thranduil turned his back on him as they stepped inside the dining room, fixating the long bow on the wall. 

“Thranduil,” Bard repeated, taking a step forward. “How long?”

“I cannot tell for certain—a week, perhaps.”

Bard swallowed uncomfortably, froze as realization hit him. “A week?” he breathed. “Thranduil, I must leave.”

Thranduil’s eyes turned to the south, out the windows where, somewhere beyond the mist, stood the gates. “I know,” he said. “They’ll be here soon.”

“Thranduil—”

“I will not hurt them,” Thranduil cut off, and he was way too calm for Bard’s liking, almost like he wasn’t really there. “I’ll let them come.”

Bard clenched his fists. Alright, he thought. He didn’t need Thranduil’s authorization. Sending one last look to Thranduil, he went straight to his room, where he put on his warm clothes and his cloak, before rushing downstairs as fast as his leg allowed him, to find his weapons. 

Going for the main doors, he gave one last look to the castle, which didn’t look as dark and uninviting as the first day he’d wandered inside it, before pushing them open. 

The bite of winter bit his skin, and Bard squinted against the cold. He willed himself into going forward without looking back, cursing at the slight limp that still lingered in his leg—Thranduil was right; he needed another week, and he would have taken it, if—

He didn’t even make it to the gates before wolves blocked his way. Unlike the first time, they weren’t growling, nor baring their teeth. Not unless Bard tried to take another step forward. 

“Thranduil!” Bard called over the elements. “Let me go!”

There was no other answer, beyond more wolves joining the pack. 

With a cry of frustration, Bard turned back towards the castle.

Thranduil stood before the doors. Bard walked up to him, the only thing stopping him from throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation being his self-control. 

“I know you’re tired, but why are you so eager to give up?” he asked instead, the moment he got close enough to grab Thranduil’s arm, if he wished to. “I’m right here.”

“I told you,” Thranduil said. “It is too late for the curse to be broken. There’s no point.”

“You said once, that I needed to remember, that it would help, so please—” Bard said, feeling his voice on the edge of desperation in the face of Thranduil’s resignation. “Help me remember.”

“I can’t, Bard.” Thranduil shook his head. “You must remember by yourself—and I fear that even if you did, it might not work.”

“Remember what?” Bard insisted. “Us?”

Thranduil made a vague gesture of his hand as only answer, eye lost until it found Bard again, piercing through him like it had so many times before over the past weeks. 

Then Thranduil caught his arm, in a firm, but strangely gentle grip. Bard tried to tear himself away, but didn’t manage to, and could do little but struggle as Thranduil effortlessly lead him back inside and up the stairs. 

“You don’t understand,” Bard pleaded. “If you don’t let me go, they’ll think you’ve killed me. They’ll come for you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Thranduil. “Time is almost up.”

There was nothing in his voice; only the resignation of one who had accepted their fate. Bard stopped struggling, letting himself be led to the bedroom, inside which he was pushed with little force. 

Bard turned on his heels, failing to grab Thranduil’s arm before he reached the door.

“Won’t you let me try to help?”

“I’m sorry, Bard.” Then Thranduil shook his head and, with a ruffling of his cloak, walked away. 

The door closed shut after him, and only then did understanding fall down onto Bard; Thranduil had known. He’d known Tom would tell the village. He’d thought they would attack at once, and he would have died in battle, perhaps even before anyone but himself could get hurt. But it was Bard who had come instead. In frustration, he’d ordered his wolves to attack. 

Then he’d seen Bard’s face, and there’d been a flicker of hope inside him—but as he’d seen Bard didn’t remember, it had weakened, and died once more. 

 

Bard knew they were coming when the lock of his bedroom’s door clicked, locking him inside. He rose from the bed quickly, going for the door, and tried the handle before slamming his fists against it. 

“Thranduil,” he called. “Open the door!”

He thought he’d only get more silence as an answer, and yet—

For the second time, he heard the whispers. 

Once again Bard couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he could tell one thing: they were worried. 

They might not have known who they were, nor meant to be heard—but they felt danger strongly enough for their chatter to grow loudler. 

This can’t be good, Bard thought. He hurried to the window, opening it and trying to see through the falling snow—the gardens were covered in white, empty save for a shadow that Bard discerned on top of the stairs, in the exact same spot Bard had seen Thranduil for the first time. 

Far away shone the light of angry torches. 

“Thranduil!” Bard called again, but Thranduil didn’t move an inch. “I know you can hear me—don’t be a fool!”

At Thranduil’s silence, Bard cursed under his breath. He wasn’t even acknowledged. 

Very well, Bard thought. A door had never stopped him before, and tonight wouldn’t be the first time it would. He peeked his head outside, observing and analysing his surroundings as to find the easiest, fastest way down. He’d scratch his hands and knees, but it wasn’t impossible. 

Determined, Bard crawled out the window, before climbing down to the next level, then the next. Breaking the glass, he entered an empty guestroom. The door was open, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Thranduil hadn’t locked the main doors—he’d have to find another way out. 

He made for the library, where he knew the windows opened onto the gardens. It hurt to think he’d have to break the stunning stained glass—however, it was a small price to pay for a life saved, were he to arrive in time. 

Bard heard the angry voices and shouts of the townsfolk the second the glass shattered. The growling of Thranduil’s wolves rang with them, weaker than Bard remembered them, but threatening all the same. Not waiting any longer, Bard hurried, running as fast as his leg and weeks of rest allowed him. 

Everything turned silent the moment Bard appeared out from behind Thranduil, slipping through the wolves and coming to a halt between the two parties that had just met. At his back, Thranduil said something, but Bard couldn’t decipher the words. 

Instead, his eyes and attention were fixed on the townsfolk. From the front, the town’s mayor took a few steps forward in his direction, brows furrowed. Confused murmurs tainted with the joy of seeing their friend and neighbour alive sped through the crowd.

If the moment hadn’t been so pressing, Bard would have shed tears at the sight that then appeared before him. Out of the crowd came Sigrid—she wasn’t armed, as if she’d come only to make sure with her own two eyes that her father was indeed gone. Certainly she’d convinced Bain to stay home with Tilda, in case anything were to happen to her, too. 

She made a step towards him, eyes wet with relief, but still strong and determined. Briefly raising a hand, Bard instructed her to stay where she was. She froze, answering with a quick nod of her head. 

“Bard?” The town’s mayor brought Bard’s attention back to him. He blinked, staring in disbelief, like he’d seen a ghost. “We thought you were dead—”

“I’m definitely not,” Bard said, trying to keep his voice even, tearing his gaze away from his daughter. “Can you _please_ lower your weapons, before you hurt him.”

Bard heard Thranduil say his name, but didn’t pay it any mind. Feeling sorry for ruining his suicide plan wasn’t in Bard’s plans today.

The town’s mayor’s brows furrowed deeper. “Him?” he stammered, confusion written all over his face. “What do you mean, _him_ , he—”

“I’m alright, and he won’t harm any of you.” Then, without looking behind him, he said, “Thranduil, stop—there’s no use.”

For a moment, Bard thought Thranduil wouldn’t back down. People held their breath, and Bard with them. The minute that passed was the longest of his life.

Then, suddenly, the wolves disappeared in clouds of white smoke. Still, faster than Bard had thought it’d take—Thranduil wasn’t one to give up so easily, this he could tell. He saw only one explanation for it, and remembered the pressing whispers he’d heard earlier; Thranduil's life wouldn't end by the townsfolk's hand, but it would be over for him soon, regardless. Meanwhile the townsfolk gasped, their confusion increasing, but eventually they slightly lowered their weapons, seeing no more threat before them than a cursed, defeated man. 

Sending Sigrid a reassuring look, which she answered with another nod, Bard then turned and faced Thranduil. Though his stance spoke of pride, his eye was blank. Little had ever felt more wrong, and Bard hated that he couldn’t exactly tell why.

He clasped a hand over his forehead, closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying to catch the memories roaming at the corner of his mind. Close enough to be felt, too far to be touched.

“I _want_ to remember, but I can’t,” he said, taking a step towards Thranduil. 

Bard looked around, trying to find the words until they simply came tumbling down. 

“I don’t know what it takes exactly to break this curse—but whatever it is, I would do it for you,” Bard said, but Thranduil kept shaking his head. “I don’t know what you were like before, but Thranduil—I have lived with you for three weeks. I have seen you going from wanting to hurt me in all your anger and frustration at your plan to end your pain failing, to showing me kindness: sheltering me, healing me, feeding me. . . treating me like a king. I didn’t see a man who refuses to see the mistakes he made. I saw a man desperately wanting to redeem himself, but never being given a chance to do so. Or thinking no one would ever give him one, anyway.”

He searched Thranduil’s eye, saw the weak flicker of light inside it. It wasn’t hope, but rather, something else—relief, perhaps, at having seen a glimpse of what he’d lost, before death came. 

Bard was struck by sudden realization. He knew what he had to say, felt the power of the words on his tongue before he’d even spoken them. 

He locked eyes with Thranduil, all the conviction held within his heart bubbling. 

“This chance, I’m giving it to you,” Bard said, gently, but firmly all the same. “I forgive you.”

And that was enough. 

Time stopped, and silence fell upon the castle’s gardens, not even the wind carrying a sound. 

Bard blinked several times to chase away the blurriness that settled before his eyes, feeling dizzy at the swirl of memories, which like the pieces of a puzzle found their way back, until his eyes found their focus again. At the silence he glanced behind him, finding the townsfolk frozen, like the snow in the air, and the clouds in the sky. 

Thranduil seemed frozen too, by Bard’s words, and Bard could tell from the look in his eye that he knew precisely what had just happened in Bard’s head. From his expression, Bard guessed he expected rejection, or worse. 

On that, Thranduil couldn’t have been more wrong. 

He’d seen it, of course—the night when Thranduil had been cursed; the pain, the suffering of the survivors of the village whom Thranduil had let down when they’d come and asked for shelter, his own anger as he’d taken on the savior’s role that should have been Thranduil’s, and lead them to his own village. . . and then, ultimately, the grip of the witch’s sad and powerful magic wrapping around him until he forgot it all. 

“Thranduil, you fool,” said Bard, breathlessly. “This magic. . . it must have been powerful to make me forget.”

He was thankful; for the silence, for the feeling that this moment was their own. Thranduil, through his apprehension, seemed to feel the same, too. 

“To make you forget how mad you were?”

“No.” Bard shook his head. “To make me forget about you altogether.”

Thranduil shook his head in turn, like he couldn’t accept what was told to him. Like he’d lost any right to love and be loved by anyone, that night. 

“I was angry at you for the choices you made,” Bard continued, taking another step closer. “But I never hated you.” He got close enough to take Thranduil’s hand in both of his, and carried on before Thranduil could interrupt. “I wanted you to understand, but I never—I never wanted this. I never wanted you to be alone for all these years. I never wanted you to be in any pain.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.”

Sensing that Thranduil was about to say something in defeat, Bard stopped him with a glare sent his way, one that said, ‘Don’t you dare.’ And maybe, if the situation hadn’t been so desperate—maybe it would have been amusing, the way this ancient being squirmed under the mere look of a man he had once wanted to send away. 

“Listen to me,” he said. “Listen to me, because if you keep doing this, it might be the last time I’ll have a chance to say it.”

Running his hand across his face, Bard glanced behind, wishing Sigrid could see and remember, too, and that Bain and Tilda were here to remember with her. 

Then despite himself his face broke into a small, sad smile as he said, facing Thranduil again, “I love you. I love you, I forgive you—and I believe the world will, too.” 

Thranduil’s eyes widened, his mouth forming a soft ‘o’, until he bent his head, leaning it against Bard’s, almost letting it rest on Bard’s shoulder. Bard felt him inhale deeply, as hands went up to close around him, the touch almost careful, like Thranduil had hoped, waited for it, and now caught his last chance to feel the lost half of his soul close to him once more. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a breath, “I’m sorry for everything—I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it right.”

And perhaps all these words—thankfulness, forgiveness, promises—were what the witch, wherever she was, needed to hear; there was light as fierce as the sun’s, gentle as the moon’s, as Bard held onto Thranduil, and Thranduil held onto him. 

The light—it came not from the sky, but from Thranduil himself, and when they broke apart from the sheer force of the magic building up, Bard could only look on in wonder. It wrapped around Thranduil, like a healing wave, and then, when the light began to blind them, spread to the gardens, to the castle, to the forest. 

Progressively, time returned; the snow fell, the wind blew, the people gasped in recognition and wonder. Away in their village, Bard could almost hear Tilda, calling for the Ada she’d loved and missed so much. In the forest, were the lost people looking for their way home. The whispers belonging to the souls lost in the castle turned into voices, and Thranduil—

As once foretold, half the scars upon his face and body faded away, leaving skin like silk under Bard’s fingertips. But, more than anything else, it seemed like the weight of the world was finally lifted from his shoulders, and he was more beautiful, more hopeful for it. 

Bard watched as Thranduil looked down to his hands, to his surroundings, to the awestruck townsfolk walking past them towards the castle in all its glory once more, to Sigrid with a hand over her mouth, holding back tears as she processed the memories that had come back to her, and finally, to Bard. 

There was a moment; of understanding, perhaps. Bard was sure, would he have placed his hand upon Thranduil’s heart, he would have felt it beat fast at the anticipation of the many reunions to be had, the many apologies to be given. 

In town, Tilda and Bain waited. 

Home, others waited, too. Amongst them, one of those Thranduil had missed most. 

“Go,” Bard said, encouragingly. He knew he wouldn’t be far behind. “They need you—and he’s waiting.”

Thranduil nodded, but instead of going, he first caught Bard’s face between his hands, and then sealed their lips in a kiss: a promise of catching up on time lost, of making up for past mistakes. Never losing sight of what had already once been lost—lost once enough.

**Author's Note:**

> And they lived happily ever after~ listen I'm such a romantic at heart.
> 
> I wish I could say that I have more fics planned, but this story was the last one in my WIPs list. If I ever post a Barduil fic again, it'll probably be a short fic, but I have no plans for now. It was time I took a break anyway. I've been writing for this pairing for over three years, and I'm running out of ideas. There's just one that I sometimes think about, and if I wrote it it wouldn't be longer than 1.5k, but we'll see. Anyway, it's been amazing. Lots of hard times writing-wise, but much more good ones. To be honest, the Barduil fandom was my first pairing fandom and it set the bar so high that I don't think I'll ever have another fandom experience like this one!
> 
> If you wish to read more of my Barduil stuff (from canon setting, to college AU, to fantasy/road trip AU, to soulmates in the 50s AU, and more!) check out my account! I'm always extremely happy to get comments on old stories!! :D
> 
> But if you liked this one, a Kudos would be much appreciated, and comments send me into a little bubble of happiness! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ [evansluke](http://evansluke.tumblr.com) or [barduil](http://barduil.tumblr.com)!


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